


Not Least in the Crusade

by THG



Series: Jack Robinson's War Stories [2]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Medical, Medical Procedures, War Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28959198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THG/pseuds/THG
Summary: Mac asks Jack about his war wounds.
Series: Jack Robinson's War Stories [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2123985
Comments: 41
Kudos: 38





	1. No Man's Land

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a single chapter of _Jack Robinson's War_ , but the medical history of the war is one of my areas of specialism, so it got rather out of hand. I've instead turned it into its own multi-chapter work as part of a series of war stories. The chapter titles will all refer to the different stages on the chain of evacuation down the line that wounded men followed.

‘You can put your shirt back on now, Inspector.’

Jack sighed in mock irritation as he pulled his vest over his head. ‘If I had known that recommending you as coroner would have meant you worming your way in as police surgeon…’

The doctor grinned at him over her untidy desk.

‘Don’t give me that. You knew damn well that the Commissioner was looking to save money by filling both posts with a single over-worked fool.’

‘Well, what’s the verdict?’ Jack finished buttoning his collar and began knotting his tie with swift, expert flicks of the hand.

‘Well, it’s always nice to see one’s diagnosis confirmed.’

‘Diagnosis? What diagnosis?’ Jack tried to keep the trace of anxiety out of his voice.

‘Hmm…? Oh, just that I was quite right in my identification of the most suitable specimen for mating, if I ever found myself that way inclined. You, my good man, are disgustingly fit and healthy.’ Mac leaned back in her chair and flicked casually through the file she had plucked off the desk. Jack choked slightly, and then laughed.

She levelled a look at him. ‘So, the ribs don’t give you any trouble these days, then?’

‘My ribs. No. They haven’t done for years. But how do you know about…?’ Jack leaned forward and, drawing on years of police experience, read the file she had now placed on the desk upside down. He sat back suddenly, his voice now genuinely outraged. ‘Is that my repat file? How the hell did you get your hands on that? Those army boys never let any of their precious paper work out of their sight!’

She grinned at him again, this time wickedly. ‘I’ve had more than enough experience of getting around recalcitrant MOs, Jack. More than you have at any rate. It was one of the first skills we had to hone during the war.’

‘We?’ He looked puzzled.

‘Women doctors.’ She stretched her legs out, looking into the distance reminiscently. ‘I was with the Scottish Women’s, first in Serbia then at Royaumont. We had to fight to even be allowed to help – when Dr Inglis first went to the War Office offering to help, do you know what the idiot official said to her? “Go home, my good women, and sit still!” To Elsie Inglis, of all people! Heaven help the man!’

Jack raised an eyebrow. ‘I take it she didn’t go home to her knitting?’

Mac laughed. ‘You clearly never met Elsie! No, she got in touch with the French and Belgians directly. They were more than happy for our help – and, of course, the Serbians were desperate, poor bastards.’ Her voice trailed off, reminiscently.

‘You miss it?’ 

‘Hmm…?’ Mac came back from somewhere far away. ‘No, not really. The job was hell – I don’t think I’ve ever been so exhausted in my life - and patching up men because they have decided that the best way to prove themselves is to poke holes in each other or blow each other up is not _my,_ idea of job satisfaction. But there were compensation, I suppose.’

‘Yes, there always are.’

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘Care to tell me about it? That rib fracture, for instance. I’ve been trying to piece together what happened, but it looks to me as if you had a goodish spell in hospital for a wound like that. How did you wangle that one?’

‘PUO,’ he declaimed sepulchrally, then cocked an eyebrow to gauge her reaction.

‘That old chestnut! Go on, tell me all about it, man. I’m dying of curiosity.’

Jack sighed. Once Mac got her teeth into a medical matter she wouldn’t let go, he knew. He glanced at his watch, not that he had anywhere to be that afternoon, and the endless reports would wait. They always did. He leaned back in his chair, gazed up at the ceiling and began.

* * *

It had been an ordinary trench raid, himself, the sergeant and a couple of lads up from base, a quick run to give them a sense of the sector. They had made it across to the section of barbed wire that needed replacing, made the necessary repairs as best they could and were on their way back when the shell had dropped not far in front of them. One minute Jack had been crawling along between shell holes, the next he knew nothing.

He must only have been out for a second. He came to to the sound of the sergeant’s groans and the whimpering of one of the men. He tried to push himself up but gasped and fell back as fire shot through his ribs. Something broken there. Damn!

Turning his head, he spotted the sergeant, who appeared to have leveraged himself into a sitting position and was now gazing ruefully at his leg, which lay at an odd angle. He noticed Jack’s movement and shook his head. ‘Bloody leg’s gone, sir. You alright?’

‘Ribs, I think,’ Jack gasped. ‘Can’t sit up.’

A flare went up, showing the sergeant’s face, livid and streaked with blood, suddenly crumpling with concern.

‘You’re bleeding, sir! You’ve been hit.’

‘Am I?’ Jack looked down to see blood spreading over this tunic jacket. He prodded at the places carefully. ‘Shrapnel. I’ll get a field dressing on the worst one if I can.’ Carefully, he groped for the canvas parcel in his pocket, his ribs screaming with pain with each movement.

‘’ere, you lie still, sir. Martin can see to it, can’t you, Martin?’ The sergeant’s voice was matter-of-fact, even cheerful, and Jack realised he was trying to soothe the remaining soldier. It seemed to work as the whimpering stopped.

‘I – I can try, sir,’ the man stammered, ‘but me arm…’

‘Good lad. ‘ere, I can’t move but you come and take my field dressing and use it to patch up the lieutenant there, along of ‘is, and your own. You got it? Good lad. Now, make sure you don’t drop ‘em, particularly once their open. Remember what the MO said? They must be clean when they go on the wound. No good at all if they ain’t clean.’

Martin, a skinny lad of about twenty, appeared in Jack’s line of vision. His arm was clearly broken, but thank god it was his left and he was right-handed. Soothed by the sergeant’s voice, he was able, with Jack lending a hand, to get the three pads of cotton in place and tied firmly to staunch the flow of blood. The bandages bit into Jack’s ribs like fire, but he knew that the pain was the price he would have to pay if he did not want to bleed to death.

‘Right, lad, well done. Let’s see about that arm of yours now. That’s all our bandages gone, isn’t it? Okay, come here and take my puttee. Ow –‘ the sound was almost a scream, ‘not that leg, you goddamned fool! The good one! That’s it. Right, come ‘ere. Let’s get you strapped up.’

The sling was rough but seemed to be effective, once in place.

‘Okay, off you ‘op. Get back to our lines, find the MO and get ‘im to send out the bearers. Quick as you like, lad. They won’t thank you for hanging about any more’n we will.’

Martin hopped, disappearing into the gloom at a steady slog. Silence descended. Jack lay looking up at the sky, wondering how long it would take the bearers to find them, if they ever did. Too long and he would die in this god-forsaken shell hole, miles from home, every breath an agony…

‘You alright there, sir?’

The sergeant’s voice came as a blessed relief.

‘Just about, sergeant. Yourself?’

‘Not so dusty. Getting a bit cold. Could do with a kip.’ Was it Jack’s imagination, or did the sergeant’s voice sound fainter? He couldn’t let him fall asleep; that was how men died of exposure out here.

‘Now don’t you go falling asleep on the job, sergeant. I need you to keep an eye out for the bearers when they get here. I can’t see a damned thing at this angle. That was a nifty bit of sling work you did with your puttee, by the way. Where did you learn that trick?’ Keep him talking, that should help keep him awake. And it might help the bearers find them out here.

‘Thank you, sir. I did a course with the St John’s Ambulance, the summer before the war started. They always said to use whatever to was at ‘and to make a sling or a splint if you ‘ad to. Improvisation, they called it.’

‘St. John’s Ambulance? You interested in medicine, then? You should have joined the poultice wallahs.’

The sergeant laughed. ‘So I should – nice cushy job behind the line, mebbe, although knowing my luck I’d end up in a sanitary section, shovelling shit. Think I’d rather take my chances with Jerry.’

‘Well, I’m damned glad you ended up here with me rather than with the medicos. I couldn’t have kept that poor boy Martin calm on my own. What happened to Brown, by the way?’

‘Copped it.’ The sergeant’s voice was grim, and Jack decided not to pursue the matter further.

The minutes ticked by. Jack could feel himself getting colder and knew that he mustn’t fall asleep either. He started again, although the constant pain in his ribs made talking agonising, asking the man about himself, what he did in civilian life (head groom at a livery stable) and his family (a wife and three kids, all of the growing like weeds and wearing out their boots faster than he could send money home to buy new). In return he told the sergeant about Rosie and about his work. The man was impressed and pressed him for more details.

‘Can’t see there being much future in my line of work after all this is over, not with all these motor cars and everyone learning to drive them. The police just might suit me, nice steady job with a bit of security.’

‘Well, the force is always on the lookout for good men.’

‘Would you put in a word for me, sir? If we both get through this, I mean?’

‘Well, I can try, but I’m only a senior constable in the force, you know, and god knows what the war will do to my chances of promotion. But my father-in-law has some pull. He’s a chief inspector and knows all the right people. What’s your name? Jakes? Well, write to me when we’re out of this, Jakes, and I’ll see what I can do.’ Not that either of them were likely to make it, Jack thought. He was losing blood and the cold was getting to him. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer; he could already feel himself slipping toward the comfort of oblivion.

‘Right you are, sir, thank you.’ The sergeant’s voice sounded increasingly far away, as if he were retreating, although the rational part of Jack’s mind knew that he could not have moved. Then suddenly, ‘Ssh!’

Jack held his breath and strained his ears. In the quiet he could just hear the sound of careful footsteps, then a voice calling, ‘Sergeant Jakes? Lieutenant Robinson?’

‘’ere!’ The sergeant fumbled a box of matches from his pocket, lit one and raised it aloft. The tiny flame held steady for only a second before blowing out, but it was enough. The footsteps came closer, and then four helmeted heads peered into Jack’s face. The bearers had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The series title comes from the 1947 'Hymn to the Fallen of the Royal Army Medical Corps': 'Unarmed they borne an equal burden,/ Shared each adventure undismayed;/ Not less they earned the Victor's guerdon,/ Not least were these in the crusade.'
> 
> 'Repat files' - repatriation files, created for all servicemen returning to Australia from service overseas after the war. The files, which are publicly available on the amazing Trove site, contain military, disciplinary, medical and pension records. They are a goldmine for social and military historians alike.
> 
> The Scottish Women's Hospitals were among a number of voluntary medical units that offered their services to military medical services during the First World War. (Others included the Friends Ambulance Unit and the 'Women of Pervyse'.) Formed by Elsie Inglis and with strong ties to the National Union of Women's Suffrage Societies, they recruited women with medical qualifications and university educated women training to become doctors (there is a lovely picture of the Cambridge University unit in the Wellcome Library collection.) Their help was famously turned down by the British War Office (this was true of almost all voluntary units initially; later their help was accepted under the leadership of the British Red Cross), so they offered their help to foreign militaries who were delighted to accept. Over the course of the war, they sent units to Corsica, Malta, Romania, Russia, Salonika and Serbia, although their most famous hospital was at Royaumont in France. 
> 
> On the resilience of the medical staff during the war, see Carol Acton and Jane Potter, _Working in a World of Hurt: Trauma and Resilience in the Narratives of Medical Personnel in Warzones_ , Manchester University Press, 2015.
> 
> PUO: Pyrexia of Unknown Origin - essentially a fever that the doctor can't explain.
> 
> For first field dressings and their importance (and, indeed, most of the history of medical evacuation in this work), see Jessica Meyer, _An Equal Burden: The Men of the Royal Army Medical Corps in the First World War_ , Oxford University Press, 2019 (available as an open access work on the Oxford Scholarship Online site). For a more specifically Australian history of the Army Medical Services, see Alexia Moncrieff, _Expertise, Authority, and Control: The Australian Army Medical Corps in the First World War_ , Cambridge University Press, 2000.
> 
> The St John Ambulance in Australia was founded in 1883, providing first aid training to civilian volunteers. During the war, the British branch was one of the two key providers (along with the British Red Cross) of training for the Voluntary Aid Detachment units. Their training manual from the period includes instructions on how to improvise bandages from handkerchiefs and splints from bits of wood. Puttees, the strips of cloth soldiers wrapped around the lower part of their leg for protection, were incredibly useful as improvised bandages and slings.
> 
> 'Poultice wallah' - slang for a member of the RAMC, adopted from the Indian Army. As well as doctors, stretcher bearers and orderlies for various units, the medical services also provided specialist sanitary squads throughout the war. One of their main jobs was identifying suitable locations for latrines, building them and keeping them clean.
> 
> 'Kip' - sleep
> 
> 'Copped it' - killed
> 
> 'Cushy' - soft


	2. RAP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack starts his journey along the chain of evacuation.

There eight of them, Jack realised, two-thirds of the Doc’s little group of volunteer bearers. How often had he cursed when there was a working party to organise and they had cried off for one of the Doc’s seemingly endless lectures on hygiene maintenance or another round of stretcher drill. But now he had reason to be glad not just of that training, but the fact that it was obviously a quiet night on this stretch. Eight meant two stretchers and he and Jakes would be both go together, rather than one being left to wait endlessly for them to go and return. And it saved him the argument of trying to get the sergeant to go first as well, one he knew he would lose based on the severity of his wounds, let alone the seniority of his rank.

As he was thinking this, the four men who were taking him had surrounded him and were inspecting the blood-soaked bandages.

‘Best leave ‘em, Charlie. The MO won’t thank us for trying to change ‘em in this muck.’

Charlie nodded, then, to Jack, ‘It looks pretty bloody, sir, but we’ll see you through. Just try to stay with us. Anything else we should know about?’

‘My ribs, I think.’ His voice rasped hoarsely, barely above a whisper.

‘Hmm,’ Charlie, clearly the man in charge, poked gingerly at Jack’s middle, making him wince. ‘Right you are, sir. This next bit won’t be a picnic, I’m afraid. No morphine ‘til we get you to the RAP.’

‘Could I have some water?’

‘Let me just check – shrapnel to the shoulder and the hip, and it looks like a bit knicked you in the side, but that looks like a flesh wound, not an abdominal so it should be alright. Here, Jim, pass us your water bottle.’

Gently, he raised Jack and held the bottle to his lips, trickling the water in slowly. Jack focussed his attention of the soothing sensation of the cold liquid sliding over his tongue and down his dry throat as a distraction from the pain that the movement caused. Beyond on Charlie’s shoulder he could just see the rest of the bearers unfurling their stretcher.

‘Right, sir, this next bit it going to hurt.’ Jack couldn’t supress a groan as Charlie grasped his shoulder and the man called Jim grabbed his ankles and between them they heaved him on to the stretcher. To distract himself, Jack turned his head to see what was happening to Jakes. In the gloom he could just make out his set face and rigid form, clearly trying not to scream as the bearers caring for him straightened his leg and bound it in a splint made – was that a couple of bayonets? Very enterprising, Jack thought to himself with an internal grin.

‘Right, sir, off we go.’

‘Wait, what about my kit?’

‘Don’t worry, sir. Jim’s got that. Ready, Percy, Fred?’ The two men, one at each end of the stretcher nodded and knelt down, slipping leather straps over their heads. ‘Right, on my count, one, two, three – lift.’ Jack felt himself raised, rocking – back and forth, left and right – and then steadying as the men found their grip and footing. Then Charlie’s voice again, ‘By the left – march!’ and they set off.  
Jack never afterwards knew how long that journey took, the stretcher rocking, the men panting with effort, the starts swinging above him in the sky. Every now and then Charlie’s voice would call out some muffled warning or instruction, and Jack would feel himself tipping perilously sideways or, one occasion, bumped abruptly to a halt and then swung violently to the right as they skirted the shell hole that Percy – or was it Frank? – had just managed to avoid walking straight into. Then, just as he thought he could take no more, he heard a cry that wasn’t Charlie’s and the stretcher halted and was carefully lowered to the ground. There was a pause, and then he felt himself pulled forward, the ground scraping against his back, causing at least one of the pads of dressing to pull away and jarring his ribs. Jack bit back a scream with all his might. What the hell were they playing at?

The stretcher turned at an angle, and then hung suspended for a moment before it completed its turn and was lowered into the trench. They had made it, Jack thought, but a muttered conversation between Charlie and the soldiers who were manning this bit of trench swiftly disabused him of any idea that his journey was at an end. The RAP was in a communication trench, it seemed, still some way off, and off they set again, this time with a bearer supporting each corner on his shoulder.. The going over the duckboards should have been smoother, but at every angle of the zigzag trench they had to pause to hoist the stretcher up to negotiate it around the tight turn. Jack closed his eyes, half wishing that the pain would cause him to pass out, that he might never have to feel again. He found himself cursing under his breath, a steady stream of invective aimed at no one in particular but which kept his mind off of the agony of his wounds as he dredged his memory for every filthy and creative turn of phrase he had heard in the back alleys and lock-ups of Melbourne.

The RAP, when they finally arrived, was a medium-sized dug-out lit by a flickering oil lamp. The MO, a cadaverous-looking man with an enormous moustache who had been a GP in Ballarat in civil life, greeted him cheerfully.

‘Hello, Jack, what have you gone and done to yourself then? Ribs, hmm? And some pretty little shrapnel wounds I see. Yes, we’ll soon get those cleaned up for you. Cookson, the morphine and the anti-tetanus, please. And then blankets and the heater – don’t want you going into shock now, do we old man?’ Then, more sharply to the bearers, ‘Why the hell didn’t you take blankets with you as I ordered? Can’t you see he is freezing cold and likely to go into wound shock after all this time and loss of blood? No, never mind, don’t try to explain now. We’ll just have to do our best, but if he succumbs to shock, I’ll know whose responsible. Now get out and get that stretcher cleaned up.’

Jack wanted to protest, to say that the bearers had looked after as well as they were able, that he wasn’t cold and that he wanted to thank him, but as he was talking the MO had given him two injections and now, as the orderly cut away the bloody dressings, he could feel the morphine starting to take effect. The pain receded and, with gratitude, he let himself finally slip into the darkness of unconsciousness.

When he came too, it was to find Jakes lying on a stretcher next to him, his leg now encased in a cage-like apparatus, but still as filthy and exhausted-looking as when Jack had last glimpsed him in No Man’s Land. Jakes gave him a nod and a grin. 

‘Good to see you, sir. Glad you made it.’

‘And you, Jakes. Leg alright?’

‘Think so, sir. Leastways, they’ve got it all bound up in this ‘ere Thomas splint and given me some morphine so I can’t feel a thing.’

At that moment, Cookson, the MO’s orderly came over with a couple of steaming mugs.

‘Here you are, sir.’ He handed one to Jack. ‘Drink that up. We’re just waiting on the RAMC chaps and we’ll get you on down to the clearing station.’

Jack sipped the hot, sweet tea, the sugar failing to disguise the petrol tang that always flavoured frontline brews. As he did so, he noticed the large wax envelop pinned securely to his chest. A clatter of boots and the sound of voices at the dug-out entrance caused Cookson to turn away before Jack could ask what it was. Two men he didn’t recognise entered and saluted Cookson briskly.

‘Bearers from No. 43 Field Ambulance. Here you have some casualties for us to take down. And we’ve brought up some more blankets, as requested. Major Davidson says, can they please be returned promptly and with as few new inmates a possible?’

Cookson snorted. ‘Tell Major Davidson that the last lot we had from you already had lice in them when they arrived! You lot need to find some new laundry women, ones who know what they are doing!’

The men grinned; the complaint was obviously a familiar one. The taller one nodded towards Jack and Jakes.

‘Those two for us?’

Cookson nodded. ‘Broken ribs and shrapnel – strapped and dressing dressings changed but we couldn’t see if we cleared everything out. The wounds will probably need to be debrided. Broken femur – strapped and splinted, should do okay. I’ll just give the lieutenant some morphine while you get Sergeant Jakes wrapped up.’

Suiting the action to the words, Cookson presented Jack with a tablet, which he swallowed obediently, then helped the two bearers wrap him in layers of coarse grey blanket. By the time this was done, the morphine was starting to take effect, and Jack was only vaguely aware of the clumping of boots and the movement of yet more bodies in and out of the dugout. As if in a dream he felt himself lifted again and bumped up the stairs. Pain from his ribs and his shoulder hit him again, but it felt far away. Then he felt cool air on his face, fresh and almost sweet after the fug of the dugout and then he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there is rather more history than there is Jack in this chapter. I may have got a bit carried away. Most of the medical history can, again, be found in Jessica Meyer, _An Equal Burden: The Men of the Royal Army Medical Corps _(OUP, 2019)__
> 
> __RAP - Regimental Aid Post. The first medical site in the chain of evacuation. Manned by a Regimental Medical Officer (RMO) and his orderly, usually a non-commissioned officer in the Army Medical Corps, whether the RAMC (British) or AAMC (Australian)._ _
> 
> __The bearers at the start of this chapter are regimental stretcher bearers. They were combatant members of the regiment who trained as ordinary soldiers and then volunteered (or were volunteered) to serve under the RMO who trained them in first aid, stretcher bearing and basic hygiene. They were not the same as the non-combatant Army Medical Corps bearers from the field ambulance who turn up at the end of the chapter. These were non-combatants who were never trained to carry arms but received more extensive training in battlefield first aid and stretcher drill._ _
> 
> __Abdominal wounds were notoriously difficult to treat (although treatment improved dramatically over the course of the war, with a reduction of fatality rates from 60% to about 30%). Two of the most dangerous things for an abdominal patient were to be moved and to be given anything to drink, something which only became common knowledge among bearers and medical orderlies from the middle of the war onwards._ _
> 
> __Trained bearers worked in groups of four. They could either carry one at each end with a neck strap, with a man to carry the wounded man's kit and a man to guide the group over rough ground, or one at each corner of the stretcher. In exceptional circumstances (as at Passchandaele in 1917, when the mud was so appalling) they could work six or eight to a stretcher. Untrained bearers (who were pressed into service at periods when there were heavy casualties) often worked six to a stretcher. Prisoners of war were also often pressed into service as emergency bearers._ _
> 
> __Shock from blood loss was one of the greatest dangers of battlefield wounds. Its most common symptom was low body temperature and keeping the patient warm was one of the best treatments. Men were supposed to be wrapped in three army blankets to aid warmth - one on the stretcher, one around him and one over him. This wasn't always possible, partly because getting regular supplies of clean blankets to the front line on a regular basis was difficult. My knowledge of the army blanket, including the prevalence of lice in them, comes from a paper given by Julie Anderson, 'Disinfecting the Front: Dirt and Disease, 1914-1918' at the War and Trauma Conference at the In Flanders Field Museum, Ypres in November 2013._ _
> 
> __Morphine (for pain) and anti-tetanus were standard treatments in all medical posts from 1916._ _
> 
> __The Thomas splint for stabilising broken femurs is essentially a form of mobile traction, versions of which are still used on battlefields (and at accidents) today. Created in the 19th century, they became a standard part of the medical officer's tool kit from 1915. After they were introduced, fatalities from femur breaks (a not-uncommon form of shrapnel wound) reduced from 80% to 15%, one of the most extraordinary statistics of the war._ _
> 
> __A field ambulance is a medical unit, not a vehicle. There will be a lot more detail about this in the coming chapters._ _


	3. Dressing Stations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack continues his journey down the line, encountering some RAMC bearers and nursing orderlies along the way.

The morphine must have done its work effectively, because the next thing Jack knew he was being set down in the yard of what appeared to be a badly damaged farmhouse with half its roof missing. A heavily moustached face peered down at him.

‘Right, what’ve we got here?’ Strong hands stripped away the blankets; deft fingers opened the greaseproof envelope pinned to his chest and extracted the card inside. ‘Broken ribs … shrapnel … dressings changed at oh eight hundred … morphine. Right!’ The card was reinserted. ‘Wait here, chum, and the doc will be with you in ‘alf a mo.’

The face disappeared, to be replaced by four others peering down at him. Jack felt his confusion growing. These weren’t the same men who had carried him from the aid post. At least, he didn’t think so…

‘Where am I?’ he croaked. ‘And who are you?’

One of the faces split into a grin. ‘Got you that way, has it, mate? Don’t worry, it takes some like that; you’ll be right as rain in a bit.’

Jack shook his head in frustration. Why wouldn’t they answer his question?

‘Where am I?’ he insisted. ‘And where are the men from the No. 43 Field Ambulance who brought me down?’

The man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You remember that? Well, nothing wrong with you head then, is there, mate? You’re at the advance dressing station at Dead Cow Farm. Just a quick stop and we’ll have you down to the main dressing station in a couple of ticks. It’s only another mile or so.’

‘But you didn’t bring me down from the front line, did you?’

‘That’s right, chum. It’s a hell of slog down from there. This is one of our regular relays. I’m afraid you got us for the rest of the journey. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you.’ He gave Jack another friendly grin.

At this point, the moustachioed man returned, carrying a steaming mug and accompanied by a very young and harried-looking medical officer, who examined Jack’s bandages while the orderly fed Jack the tea laced with so much sugar it made his teeth ache. The bearers loitered in the background, smoking cigarettes.

‘These’ll do, at least as far as Vanderlynden’s. We don’t want to keep him hanging about longer than necessary.’ He checked the card. ‘No more morphine, don’t want him going the way of that poor head case last week.’ He removed the card, scribbled on it briefly, then returned it to its protective covering. ‘Right, lads, he’s all yours. Go gently with him; the last bit’s likely to be a bit rough, I expect. You have enough blankets?’

‘Yessir. Brought a bundle up with us when we came.’

‘Ah, yes, so you did. Well, I won’t keep you. Good luck, old man,’ this last to Jack before he hurried away.

The orderly made sure that Jack finished the last of the tea, then helped the bearers rewrap Jack in more coarse blankets. As they did so, a thought occurred to him.

‘Here, orderly, check my top right hand pocket, would you?’

Unsurprised, the orderly did so, drawing out the small tin and the bundle of letters, carefully tied so that the photographic postcard of Rosie lay on top. Jack looked at the latter in dismay. Where Rosie’s face had been, smiling gaily at him out of the formal set-piece of piece of the Melbourne photographer’s studio there was now just a ragged hole. At the cost of twinging pain to his ribs, he took the bundle from the orderly and ran his finger around the hole where his wife’s head had been, before carefully removing the shrapnel fragment that had embedded itself in the letters.

‘Well, ain’t you the lucky one, sir?’ It was the gregarious bearer. ‘That would ‘ave gorn right through you if it weren’t for them letters! Must be what did for your ribs though, I bet.’ He cocked an eyebrow at the orderly, who nodded thoughtfully.

Jack handed him back the letters. ‘Put these back, will you? And the shrapnel. I’d better keep that to show my wife. She’ll never believe me otherwise. But the tin–’ His breath was getting ragged with effort.

The orderly nodded his understanding. ‘Right you are, sir.’ He opened the tin, still almost full of cigarettes and took a couple out before turning to put it back in Jack’s pocket as well.

‘No, you boys share it.’ He nodded towards the bearers. ‘I imagine you’ll need ‘em more than me before you’re done today.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ The bearers nodded their appreciation in turn, and three of them helped themselves to the cigarettes before the orderly pocketed the remainder.

‘Don’t you want any?’ Jack looked over at the fourth man, a tall, rather serious-looking young man with dark hair and a pale face.

He shook his head. ‘No thank you, sir. I have no interest in such diversions.’ His voice was rather pompous, the vowels articulated so that a layer of refinement covered what should have been its more natural country burr.

‘Percy here’s a Methodist, ain’t ya, Perce? No drinking, no smoking, no cards. No fun at all! Just endlessly reading up on all the stuff the Major keeps lecturing us on – sanitation and treatment of shock. I even saw him reading up on how to deliver, whatdoyoucallit, an-es-these-ia.’ The cheerful bearer grinned at his colleague as he drew out the last word.

‘Ah, give over, Harry!’ A small smile, rather pained smile, appeared on the young man’s face. This was obviously teasing he was familiar with. ‘Nothing wrong with aiming for promotion, is there?’

‘Well, you ain’t going to get it in our mob, are you, at least, not the commission you want.’

‘No, but it’s all useful you know. And the Colonel did hint at the chance of a commission at the next comb out, you know, although I’m pretty sure it will be for the infantry, so I’m not sure I’ll take it. If it’s the artillery, now, I’ll take it like a shot!’

‘You keep dreaming, son,’ said Harry kindly. ‘I’m sure you’ll get your shot at glory one of these days.’

Jack was puzzled and ventured to ask a question. ‘How did you end up with the medical corps if you were so keen on fighting? I thought you Poms were desperate for fighting men from the start? At least, that’s what they told us…’

Percy flushed. ‘Oh, we were, sir. I could have enlisted with the Royal Fusiliers, . But I had done St John Ambulance training rather than the Territorials, and thought there would be more chance of promotion in the RAMC. I didn’t know then that you needed a medical qualification to be an officer, and by the time I realised, the only units looking for officers were the New Army infantry battalions.’

‘Nothing wrong with that, is there?’ Jack thought back to his father-in-law’s belief that he should join the Light Horse rather than the infantry, in spite of all Jack’s protestations that he couldn’t ride, certainly not half so well as the back country boys who had flooded into Melbourne to fill the brigade’s ranks.

‘No, sir.’ Percy flushed again. ‘Only, my mum and dad wouldn’t like it. They’re a bit older, you see, sir, and I’m their only one. Knowing I was in the RAMC put my mother’s mind at ease. She thinks we’re well out of it…’

‘Perce hasn’t told her about all the times we’ve had to go up to the front lines of a night – and beyond - to collect casualties,’ Harry broke in.

Percy shrugged. ‘She wanted me to stay home, but how could I? Everyone else at work was volunteering, and the boss sent round a circular promising us all our jobs would be safe if we went. I told Mum and Dad I had to go.’

‘Well, if you ‘and’t, they’d ‘ave come for you once conscription come in, wouldn’t they? And you wouldn’t ‘ave ‘ad no choice then, so just as well you come out with us. Although I suppose you could ‘ave been a conchie, given the way the they seem to be wanting to push those bastards off on to us!’ Harry sniffed derisively and spat, making his opinion all too clear.

Percy snorted as well, although his language remained more refined. ‘No fear. If we have to be in this, I’ll do my duty as well as the next man. It’s not as if they actually put COs in with us, is it? They give ‘em to the FAU, and they’re not a bad lot, really, Harry. Those boys on the ambulance train have been out since the start, you know, and you can’t say they’re not doing their bit, even if they aren’t allowed up to the front line.’

‘True enough, Perce, true enough.’

As this conversation had been going on, the two other bearers, whose names Jack still did not know, had hefted each end of the stretcher and, still with the support of leather slings around their necks, had been carrying him along the communication trench, with Harry occasionally breaking off to shout a direction while Percy carried what Jack assumed was his kit. It had been slow going, with frequent stops to let men coming up the trench past, runners with messages, ration parties with petrol tins of water and bags of tins, an ammunition party yelling to ‘mind the fucking crate’ as they carefully carried what looked like a case of Mills bombs. At one point they were forced into a siding to wait while several companies tramped past, clearly a relieving regiment headed for the front line and not looking as if they were anticipating an easy time of it once they got there. One of the men carrying turned to Harry. 

‘How about a relief, Harry?’

‘Right you are.’ The stretcher was carefully lowered and the men swapped over, Harry at Jack’s head, Percy at his feet. They set off again in silence. Harry and Percy clearly no longer had breath enough to talk and their comrades were still recovering from their exertions. Jack tried to piece together his thoughts. He knew about the new service acts that had brought in conscription in Britain the previous year. There had been plenty of angry comment in the mess about Australia’s failure to enact something similar, with the vote against denounced as a ‘bloody disgrace, I tell you!’ by Major Jackson, who was nothing if not a fire eater. The FAU … he’d heard of them too, the unit made up of Quakers who had running ambulances since the Marne. Jackson hadn’t been too complimentary about them, if he recalled, but the British major who had been visiting their mess that night had said no, they wouldn’t serve in the military but they had done good work providing medical relief to the French and Belgian armies, as well as civilians, before the Red Cross had made them an official auxiliary unit. That must be where the train came in. But all the stuff about conchies muddled him. The FAU weren’t conchies, were they? Not if they had volunteered to help out with the battle, even if not to fight…

His thoughts were becoming increasingly muddled, and the words of the doctor were coming back to him. The morphine he had taken so long ago at the aid post must be wearing off. Each step seemed to jar with pain and all he could do was grit his teeth and try not to cry out. He was also starting to feel feverish, and longed to throw off the heavy blankets which felt as if they were binding him to the stretcher.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the stretcher was lowered to the ground and the pain receded enough for him to look around. He was in a building, what had been a farmhouse kitchen, he thought, with its enormous open fireplace at one end. All the furniture had been removed and the walls were lined with stretchers, with the dark figures of the bearers moving quietly among them. His own bearers, having set him down, put his kit next to him. Harry caught hold of a passing orderly, after a hurried conversation which Jack couldn’t catch, gave a nod to his comrades.

‘Best of luck, sir.’ Percy and the other two gave silent nods. And with that they were gone, back out into the afternoon sunshine.

The orderly stooped over Jack and, with familiar gestures, unwrapped him and opened the envelope on his chest. Again there was the ritual of hot sweet tea, this time accompanied by a morphine tablet, and the consultation with the medical officer, who ordered his bandages changed: ‘There should be time before the cars are due.’

The orderly brought scissors, warm water, a sponge and clean bandages and began removing the bandages. As they came away, a strange, sweet smell hit Jack’s nostrils, and he heard urgency in the orderly’s voice as he called the medical officer over.

‘Gas gangrene, sir.’

The medical officer peered at the wound in Jack’s shoulder and swore.

‘Clean it up as best you can, Sykes. The convoy is here and they need to go as soon as this man is ready. He’ll be better off down at the clearing station; they’ll be able to flush it properly there. It isn’t too far gone – I don’t think he’ll lose the arm if you are careful. But be quick, man!’

‘Yessir!’ The orderly returned to his work, his face imperturbable while Jack fought back his panic. Lose his arm! How could he lose his arm? What was going on? He tried to ask but the orderly only replied, ‘Try not to speak, sir. You need to lie still; we’ll see you right.’

How could he lie still? He wanted to jump off of the stretcher, run after the doctor and demand to know what was going on. But his limbs felt heavy, weighing him down, the sweat stood out in drops on his forehead, the room was swimming before his eyes…

Then the orderly was gone, heaven only knew where, and dark silent figures – two of them, four of them, eight of them? – were approaching, picking him up, carrying him out into the bright light which bit into his eyes.

A face appeared over him – blue eyes the colour of violets, dark hair shoved under a peaked khaki cap, razor sharp cheekbones and a woman’s voice with, could it be, a Collingwood accent? no, he must be hallucinating, saying ‘Here’s the last one for your car, Bert. That’s the lot.’ – and then he was raised to shoulder height and thrust forward into claustrophobic darkness. Behind his head he heard the sound of a heavy curtain lowering and then his fever, or the morphine took over and all was darkness and oblivion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advanced and main dressing stations were run by the ‘tent’ subsections of field ambulances. As mentioned before, field ambulances weren’t vehicles, they were medical establishments of 193 men divided into 3 sections. Each section in turn was divided into a bearer unit of 36 bearers (plus three wagon orderlies) and a ‘tent’ unit of 13-15 nursing orderlies. Each section had at least one officer, plus the commanding officer of the ambulance. Field Ambulances were establishments of the Army Medical Service. The men who served in them were enlisted soldiers, under military discipline, but they were, under the terms of the Geneva Conventions, non-combatants. They were trained in first aid, sanitation and stretcher drill, rather than in arms. When out of the line, field ambulances ran divisional baths and provided medical care to local civilian populations.
> 
> Dressing stations were not sites where significant medical care was carried out. Men had their dressings changed, could have a hot drink and a cigarette if they were up to it, and were then moved as rapidly as possible down the line.
> 
> The ticket that the orderly writes on, which was pinned on Jack at the Aid Post, allowed different medical officers to keep track of what treatment a man had been given, including how much morphine, on his journey down the line. They were kept in greaseproof envelopes to prevent them getting too wet in transport. Many of the envelopes (and their contents), survive and can be found in collections like the Imperial War Museums in London.
> 
> There are many, many examples of books (often the cheap Gospels handed out to soldiers by religious organisations such as the YMCA) and packets of letters and photographs stopping shrapnel. The force could, as here, still cause damage (Jack’s broken ribs, which are based on the experiences of a Liverpool serviceman), but the layers of paper could prevent fatalities. The cheap gospels often became objects of superstition for this reason, as discussed by Owen Davies in _The Supernatural War: Magic, Divination and Faith During the First World War_ (Oxford University Press, 2018)
> 
> The character of Percy here is my response to Percy the Conchie in Death Comes Knocking, and is based on David Randle McMaster, an RAMC bearer whose letters are held in the RAMC Muniments Collection at the Army Medical Services Museum, Keogh Barracks, Aldershot (RAMC/023). I have changed the geographic background. McMaster was from Exeter in Devon and served with the 2/4 Wessex Field Ambulance; the Royal Fusiliers was the City of London Regiment.
> 
> The relationship between the Army Medical Services and conscientious objectors is complicated, as discussed in Jessica Meyer, ‘Neutral Caregivers or Military Support? The British Red Cross, the Friends’ Ambulance Unit, and the Problems of Voluntary Medical Aid in Wartime’, _War & Society_, (2015) 34:1, 105-120. However, this did not apply in Australia, which voted against bringing in conscription not once, but twice. You can’t have conscientious objection to a law that doesn’t exist. 
> 
> I have deliberately put Jack in the hands of an RAMC ambulance rather than an AAMC one. This sort of international encounter was not uncommon, and extended well beyond the British imperial and dominion forces.
> 
> Gas gangrene was an incredibly common wound infection due to the difficulty of cleaning wounds in the field. It was distinguished by its unique smell, often described as sickly sweet in the diaries of the nurses who treated it. In the early years of the war it was often fatal or led to amputations. As we will see in the next chapter, a number of very effective treatments were developed for the condition.
> 
> Depending on the distance to be traveled from the front line, there might be one or more dressing stations where bearer units could swap over. They were usually located in ruined buildings or something similar to allow for some protection, but were not permanent structures. Main dressings stations were more substantial and sited near roads, to allow ambulance waggons or motor ambulance cars to collect the wounded for the next stage of their journey down the line.


	4. Motor Ambulance Convoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack travels by motor ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was going to cover both the motor ambulance journey and Jack's stay in the Casualty Clearing Station, but that is a lot to get through and I've had a bit of a block this week, so it is just the motor ambulance today. Sorry!

Jack would always say afterwards that that trip in the motor ambulance was the most terrible experience of his four years of war. 

He woke again in agony as the car jounced along, each jolt jarring his aching ribs. Through the pain washing over his body he became aware of seeping liquid sensations near his hip and shoulder, although it took him a while to realise that his wounds must have broken open again and blood was seeping through the fresh bandages.

The smell of the car, a pungent mixture of petrol fumes and blood, in concert with the uneven motion, was making his stomach roil. Every jerk felt as if he was going to be thrown off the stretcher he lay on on to the man who lay groaning dismally below. Above him he could sense, although in the darkness not see, the weight of another body from which issued a steady stream of increasingly colourful curses in a broad Scots accent, just discernible above the grinding of gears and the roar of the engine.

Jack closed his eyes again and tried to concentrate on the fleeting glimpse of the girl – he was sure it had been a young woman – he had caught before he entered this seventh circle of hell. Those eye - ! He had never seen eyes so blue. Rosie’s eyes were brown, full of the promise of warmth and comfort. These had been full of – what? Compassion? No, that was too conventional a word. He had only caught sight of them for a moment. But even that instant had been enough to make him feel, well, more courageous, he supposed, as if it would be worth living to make those eyes look at him again with pride and encouragement. 

Suddenly, the car bounced twice and came to an abrupt halt, resting at an angle that rolled Jack perilously towards the edge of his stretcher. They must have arrived, although how they were to be taken out parked at this angle Jack couldn’t say. There was the sound of movement beyond the heavy oil-proof curtain that covered the back of the wagon before it was rolled up and blessed fresh air washed in and over them. Jack took a deep grateful breath, thankful that the journey appeared to be over.

A cheerful male voice floated up to him, shattering his relief.

‘Okay, chums. Just pulled over to the side for a bit while the Yorks and Lancs boys go past. It’s like Piccadilly Circus out there, no room to swing a cat let alone get this old bus through. You just hang in there for a mo.’ There was the scratching of a match and the smell of Woodbine smoke assaulted Jack’s nostrils.

How long they waited there Jack wasn’t sure. Even if he had dared lift his arm, his wristwatch had been removed at the dressing station and was now stowed, along with the packet of Rosie’s letters that had saved his life and his pocket edition of Shakespeare’s sonnets, in a calico bag tied firmly to the stretcher. But after what seemed to be many, many cigarettes, the curtain was laced in place and they were off again, bumping and lurching as before, although this time without the accompaniment of the groans and cries of the man below. Indeed, so silent had become that Jack wondered if he had died. It wasn’t a thought he wanted to dwell on; instead he shut his eyes again and thought again about the girl.

That voice – he could have sworn it was a Collingwood accent. No, he must be delirious, fixating on eyes and dreaming of home. What would a Collingwood girl be doing driving an ambulance in France? Women did drive ambulance cars, he knew, and there was that horse-faced woman who had acted as despatch rider in the rest area behind Hooge – all teeth and braying accent. But he couldn’t imagine they would send a Collingwood girl all this way, even if the girls from the factories could hold their own better than most. Not that those eyes could belong to one of the factory line girls – could they?

The car stopped again, although this time the curtain didn’t raise and they remained in the dark, both literally and metaphorically until the engines restarted. The swearing Scot was now silent and Jack could feel himself growing woozy and light-headed. They stopped again, and again. How many times was this? Jack had lost all sense and any hope that this pain and purgatory might come to an end.

And then, all of a sudden, the curtain was rolled up and the cheerful voice from what felt like another age called, ‘Here you are then, chums.’ There was the sound of scraping wood, the stomp of feet, a pause and then he felt himself sliding forward, out of his pit of darkness, out, out into the blessed air and sunshine of the late afternoon.

He blinked and, as his eyes adjusted to the light, looked about him. They were in field out of which sprouted a number of white tents and huts, spreading away as far as he could see from his prostrate angle. Theirs was not the only vehicle parked up, and the space was busy with men in khaki unloading stretchers from some, stowing bags and boxes in others, tinkering with engines, checking tires. Nowhere among them could he see the figure of the young woman whose eyes had filled his vision for so many hours now. He gazed around helplessly, then caught sight of a vaguely familiar face smoking a Woodbine. The man grinned down at him.

‘So made it, chum. At least one of you did. They’ve taken that bloke on the bottom off to the moribund ward, poor blighter.’

Jack tried to speak, but his words came out a croak, rasping through a throat that felt like the tin roof of an Outback shanty on a blazing December day. ‘Nurse – where?’

‘Nurse? What with us, you mean? Nah, chum. They don’t send any of the birds along of us. Don’t think it’s safe that far up the front line, though they send the women drivers when we’re too busy. But none of us is nurses, unless you count nursing our busses. We’re all pretty hot stuff on that, that’s how we come to be in the MAC.’

Not a nurse. Who had she been then. The man said something about women drivers. Maybe she was one of them? ‘Where – driver – then?’

‘Driver, chum? I was your driver; Bert Thomas, that’s me. I know I’m not much to look at, but we got you here safe and sound, in spite of the pavé, and even with the brass hats taking up most of the road in their bloomin’ luxury vehicles. Me and Gertie, we’re a team.’ He chuckled.

‘Where – Gertie?’

‘Gertie? Why, this ‘ere’s Gertie.’ The little man turned and patted the ambulance car affectionately. ‘She’s my gal, she is. Been together as long as we’ve been out; nothing we don’t know about each other, or these roads, ain’t that right, old girl?’

‘But, but there was a woman – blue eyes, dark hair.’

Oh, ‘er! Yes, she was a looker alright! Don’t wonder you remember her. But she’s not one of ours, chum. Something to do with the FANY or the Women of Pervyse or summat. She were just in the yard while were loading up back there, not part of this convoy. Dunno where she is now. Sorry, chum.’

Jack wanted to ask him who the Ladies of Pervyse were, but at that moment a statuesque woman in grey and white, her hair covered by a startlingly immaculate veil, swept down on them and shoo-ed Bert away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAC – Motor Ambulance Convoy. Like the field ambulance, these were established units made up of a combination of Royal Army Medical Corps and Royal Army Service Corps officers and men drawn entirely from the RASC. These men were trained as mechanics, not medics. MACs were established from 1915, following an outcry over the poor quality of medical evacuation in the early months of the war. See Ana Carden-Coyne, _The Politics of Wounds_ (Oxford University Press, 2014).
> 
> Travel by motor ambulance was one of the most dangerous and unpleasant stages on the chain of evacuation. The cars were not routinely accompanied by medical personnel and, as noted, drivers were trained as mechanics, not medics, able to care for their vehicles, but not necessarily the men inside them. The vehicles themselves were mainly converted private cars, although standardisation of production was brought in by the middle of the war. As a result, many vehicles were poorly sprung and poorly ventilated. Travel over unmade and pavé roads in such cars could lead to wounds opening up and men bleeding to death. Others died of suffocation or shock, especially as journeys were often delayed to let men coming up the line take priority on the roads. Ambulance cars regularly suffered accidents and fell victim to shell fire designed to disrupt the supply lines. My description of Jack’s journey had been inspired in part by Carden-Coyne’s work and in part by Emily Mayhew, _Wounded: From Battlefield to Blight, 1914-1918_ (Oxford University Press, 2013).
> 
> FANY – First Aid Nursing Yeomanry. A female volunteer unit set up in 1914 to provide first aid on horseback. As the supply of horses was limited, with most being taken by the armed forces, the women retrained as ambulance car drivers and formed their own convoys which worked alongside the formal military establishments. The unit had a reputation for recruiting upper and upper-middle class young women in comparison to the Voluntary Aid Detachments which recruited a wider social mix. VADs also provided female ambulance car drivers. Both units provided despatch riders who worked behind the lines.
> 
> The Women of Pervyse – Marie Chisolm and Elsie Knocker (later the Baronness de T'Serclaes) set up an aid post at Pervyse in Belgium under the auspices of the Belgian Red Cross. They provided medical and humanitarian aid to both Allied soldiers and Belgian civilians and were known for travelling around the countryside on a motorcycle with a sidecar. There is a great photograph of them with the motorcycle in the collection relating to their work in the Imperial War Museums, London (IWM Photographs 7608-02)


End file.
